You are full brazen;
Your swollen tan lies crisp on sunbaked sand;
You call attention to my snug rounded smooth firm thighs,
But you take my breasts in hand instead.
You promise me the taste of fried chicken skin;
And so my mouth waters all woman—
Course and raspy pudding under foot.
But I am short on your mind,
I am the shadow of a soporiferous color;
You set me aside for a long look at naked dancing girls—
Their bold vees fit well for the Valencia republic.
Your lamentations bay to the one who will take your grasp;
Your espousals become the smell of arid nicotine;
You promise motherhood to girls offering views of their paunches,
But your oaths tumble over ecstasy stains on fingers rolling dry leaves.
We go our separate ways:
I to a pretty face with unpainted lips.
I make no promises;
I am only hungry to know the heart.